I’m in a place I have yearned to visit all my life. The Ngorongoro crater, a world heritage site in Tanzania. It is the worlds largest crater, formed by a volcano that collapsed and fell in on itself two maybe three millions years ago, leaving walls 610 metres high.

The floor of the crater covers 100 square miles, a self contained world of wildlife uninhabited by humans. My children describe it as a vast bowl full of wildlife cereal shapes.It is a unique place.I have been fascinated by it since I read about it as a child myself, I can barely believe I am here.

I can’t stop taking photos, I want to remember every view. Even as we break for lunch, I look through the viewfinder of my camera.I focus, focus and find …..a clear picture of a giraffe standing majestically in the middle of the crater itself.

There it is, did you spot it? There is the deliberate mistake.For all the wildlife that is in the crater, the one thing there isn’t, is giraffe – probably because the sides of the crater are simply too steep for them to descend to this magical world.

My son decided to change all that, his beloved, toy giraffe Benny who has travelled the world with us and sleeps in his bed every night, is now officially (well, as far as we know) the only giraffe to have set foot in the Ngorongoro crater.And I have photographic proof.

You see, this matters to me, when you have a professional wildlife photographer for a husband, it is quite difficult to get a safari photo worth talking about, but with the help of Benny,I have finally made my mark.

Charlie (my husband) has been in Africa, filming vultures on the Serengeti, for a special programme, part of the ‘Natural World’ series on BBC2. Finally we have come to join him for our own African adventures.

We meet in Arusha at the Twiga lodge (named after the Swahili for giraffe). This is the base for Shaw safaris, run by Paul and Erika who escaped the rat race in England to create sanctuary and a great place to set off on your own self drive safari, in one of their landrovers.For us, it is the perfect place to start and we admire the lush landscaped garden with a gin and tonic to die for after a long flight.

We fly to the Serengeti early next morning. We plan to sleep under canvas, sharing the African plains with the wildlife, during the famous migration season.Before we arrive at the camp however, we are in for a treat. We have heard so much about vultures from Charlie, and now we get a show of our own. We happen across a recently deceased zebra, just as the vultures are arriving. From nowhere, a hyena runs in, scattering the large birds, it turns out that is great news for the vultures.The hyena is the only one on the plains with jaws and teeth tough enough to get through the zebra hide.The hyena is the butcher breaking through to the meat, now the vultures can really feast. Charlie talks us through the action, different species eat different parts of the body. They swagger and squawk, they bow and scrape. We begin to see beyond the disgusting nature of their feeding and become fascinated by the power games between the different species, the characters that reveal themselves; some plucky, some cowardly.

Charlie points out that different species of vulture have different beaks to match what they are designed to eat.

We fall into a rhythm. Rising before dawn is worth it for long, full safari days. We bounce out in the landrover and get lucky; we see leopard cubs, a lion kill, those vast herds of zebra and wildebeest on their long migration.

One evening as the sun begins to set and we find ourselves thinking longingly of our hot bucket shower and supper, we find a mother cheetah hunting. She prowls for a bit and then makes her decision. At zig-zag lightening speed she chases and catches a gazelle, a drama that has my three children transfixed. She then proudly settles next to the body while herthree, fluffy offspring gorge themselves.

Next morning, we find hyenas playing, fighting and mating in the river, and at sunsetwe quietly drive past giraffe after giraffe grazing the trees; so many that we lose count.

Back at camp, Puce, Jo and the team are only too happy to play football with our three riotous boys, while we take those long awaited hot bucket showers under the stars in preparation for a beautiful dinner.Deep sleep is only interrupted by the casual munching of water buffalo, outside our tent, and the odd distant lion roar.

Our next stop is the crater, my stomach is full of butterflies, as our small plane flies over Olduvai gorge. Beneath me, the earliest fossils of hominids were found (three million years old) I’m looking at cradle of mankind. Suddenly we fly over a ridge and the enormous crater reveals itself to me for the first time.

A short drive later, we arrive at the Elvin village that is the Ngorongoro lodge.Thatched round dwellings are connected by rustic wooden walkways. Inside, beamed ceilings vault over quirky interiors, luxurious fabrics drape around wide beds, cookies are magically decorated with our names, and most tempting for me, floor to ceiling windows make the most of panoramic views over that long awaited crater.

Just like Elrond itself, The Ngorongoro lodge is all about thoughtful luxury.

My husband is delighted to discover the same floor to ceiling view in the loo, not only that but some-one has placed a pile of classic National Geographic magazines next to it – I won’t see him for a while.My children are delighted to

accept an invitation to try Masai spear throwing on the lawn (what boy wouldn’t?). I am delighted to simply soak in the huge, roll top bath and gaze at the view.

African swallows fly past the open windows and birdsong flavours each peaceful moment, before there is an excited bashing at the door, ‘Mum, Mum come and see, there’s an elephant in the garden!’.

The following morning, after our chilly dawn descent into the crater, we push up the roof of the landrover and paradise is revealed.The crater floor is home to lions and baboons, hippos and zebra.We drive through woodland, where the shady smell of damp green is refreshing, and we discover baby elephants. We stop to watch them learning to forage with disobedient trunks.They attempt to copy their mothers who move delicately through the bush with a grace that belies their size, but they are still clumsy.I discover that peace is a small herd of elephants moving through the trees.

On the other side of the road the local baboon troop pluck up the courage to walk by the car.A streaming community on the move; single males, young females, mothers with babies riding on their backs. My boys point out sore bottomed individuals.

Baboons walk like a dog on all fours when they need to get somewhere but on two feet like a primate when they are dawdling.Big males swagger by, smaller, less confident juveniles, stand up, taking their time, looking at us with suspicion through swivelling eyes, before finally plucking up the courage to run by on silent feet and giving us the giggles.

Back at the lodge, curls of smoke escape into the pink sky from the chimney of each house – a sign that the wood burning stoves inside have been lit against the chilly evening.Inside our room is a bigger treat, the bathroom is scattered with rose petals, the bath is full of hot bubbly water, beside it a cool bottle of champagne.Dinner waits.

Our final stop on our Tanzanian adventure is completely different; after a days travelling, we find ourselves wading through the turquoise sea to Mnemba island lodge just off Zanzibar.In just a couple of hours we transform from safari goers to beach bums.Long lenses are replaced by long cocktails, stout boots by barefoot.However, our passion for wildlife watching remains and Mnemba proves great for snorkelling whether you are six or forty something.

We are not the only fans of this island, turtles have been coming to these beautiful white beaches for thousands of years. After a romantic dinner on the beach we are summoned with whispers – tonight is a special one. Sitting quietly on the white, moonlit sand, we watch a female dig a deep nest and lay her eggs, it is hard work and she often stops to rest. The staff here are trained to check and tag the females without disturbing them, and they monitor and protect each nest, even keeping an eye over the babies when they hatch and make their way to the water.

When her work is done the mother disappears into the black ocean as if she was never there.Leaving the fate of her babies to chance – and to us.

The next day as we are eating lunch I spot a dorsal fin rise and fall in the water, Mnemba is often home to dolphins.At one yell, my whole family leave the table at breakneck speed with just the clatter of cutlery remaining.We grab snorkelling equipment and head out in a boat, throwing ourselves into the sea to join the dolphins in their blue world. There are so many; even mothers with babies, but they are busy, they have their own agenda and are clearly on their way somewhere. They slow, rolling over to check us out and swim close to the children as if to say’ hi,’ then they are off again.It is just a few shared moments, but like so many of the adventures on this trip, the stuff that wildlife dreams are made of.

And as for Benny the giraffe, well she didn’t get to see the dolphins but every time I go into the children’s room I’m sure I catch her with a smug grin on her face, she is dreaming of Tanzania – there aren’t many toy giraffes who can lay claim to being the first giraffe in the crater, I often wonder where she is thinking of going next.

Great to present Harvest 2015 BBC 2 with Gregg Wallace and a fantastic BBC team, pulling on wellies and exploring the farms and the stories that bring the food to our plates was fascinating. Most days last summer found us in the middle of a field somewhere in all weathers and I loved every minute of it. Thanks to all the farmers who gave up their time for us – rumour is that we could be doing it again next year.

Silently floating, my son and I watch the slim, long, dark shape glide from under the jetty into a patch of sunlight. A six-foot cigarshaped shadow. “There he is – Hooky,” I whisper.

We had heard tales of him, An old barracuda; gnarled, scarred, with a hook and fishing line forever dangling from between the two sets of fangs on the side of his mouth.No one was brave enough to try to get the hook out.I can tell my three boys are thinking about it.

He contemplates us. I wonder what is really going through his small mind. Barracuda’s can live to over fourteen years; he’s clearly had a few fights, and judging by the hook, a few encounters with humans. He remains still, lurking under the failing jetty. A forgotten piece of the Caribbean waiting to see what comes his way.

My six-year-old boy and I silently touch the still, blue water with our paddles, our kayak responds instantly, cruising alongside a rocky coastline, on a pond like surface.I notice that, in front of me, my small man has his mouth open.His paddle forgotten, he stares in much the same trance-like way as he stares at ‘Cbeebies’ at home but here he is transfixed by thousands of fluttering flowers on the rocky shoreline. Each giant cactus, each shrub, is moving then we realise why, the whole bank is laden with white butterflies.

Here, in the British Virgin Islands, it is as if we are touching something beyond the tourists; the real Caribbean, as old as it is still, quiet deserted.

Like Blackbeard’s pirates who roamed these islands thirsty for rum, we too have voyaged far and adventured but now drink, just for a few moments, the deep, silent, clear watered peace of this place.

The sweetest joy of sailing is coming into these unoccupied bays, but barely touching them with our presence, we leave nothing we disturb nothing. The silence closes behind us and the wildlife remains as it was, it’s just that we have seen it.

At sunset, we treasure hunt on the beach, (cocktails in hand). We discover bleached white coral,portions of a miniature hermit crab claw, broken bits of sea urchin and we have time to inspect each intricate and marvellous design. We hear a squawk and look up to see a lone red macaw watching us. They aren’t usually found here. Has he escaped from the pirates?

We can visit these out of the way places because we are staying on a boat, this bay is our home for the night but tomorrow it could be anywhere, a different island every night, but our comfy bedrooms stay the same.Did I say boat? Sorry I meant a catamaran (47’) and while we’re at it, for us landlubbers, the bed is actually a berth, the toilet is a head, and the kitchen is a galley.All part of the adventure, the best part being you can jump off a boat into clear water, lie on it with a book and pop off to a deserted beach at a moments notice in it. We are on a mission for the Boat Show to report on sailing with the family – luxury sailing that is. (I know, I know tough job and all that but when they asked I was hardly going to say no!)

So we are afloat. ‘The Viking Dream’ is our home for a week. It is like ‘Swallows and Amazons’, a passport to adventure and discovery, to freedom from chores and the quite unique liberation that comes from daily diving into the clear sea. However because we have no pirate qualifications i.e., we don’t have a clue how to sail a boat, (an embarrassment on the high seas), we do travel with the very qualified ‘Captain Cocktail’ and ‘Sally in the galley’ (not their real names you understand).

The British Virgin Islands, an archipelago of more than 60 island cays are perfect for family sailing because of the huge variety of anchorages from busy bar beaches to deserted bays, in typically calm seas.There is great snorkelling and scenery, plenty of safe spots and the climate averages at 28 degrees C with cooling breezes and the occasional tropical rain shower.

Mark and Sally are both qualified yachting instructors so the boys get some of the most useful lessons of their lives, how to read a chart, how to steer the boat, to watch the wind, to see it fill a sail and then feel the sea moving beneath the wheel and compensate for it.

Our captain and his wife escaped the drizzle of England to make better use of their sailing qualifications and turn dreams into reality.They now run holiday charters, cruising people around these islands that they love and feeding them delicious food tailored specifically to us; Mahi kebabs, gourmet Viking burgers, four seeded tuna, Caribbean chocolate rum bananas.

There is non stop wildlife, we spend an age with all five of the family in the water making friends with barracuda, peering at butterflyfish, pointing out the whole delicate coral underwater ecosystem, and wondering at eels, rays and the countless shapes and colours of reef fish.

We birdwatch from the deck, frigate birds and brown boobys (kids favourite!), jewel coloured hummingbirds and kingfishers and we explore mangrove swamps discovering wading birds and baby sharks in the warm shallows. Jacks leap from the water, their silver scales flashing and occasionally we get a glimpse of a turtle’s head as it surfaces to breath.

Later we swim to the soggy dollar bar at white bay, palm trees wooden paint faded pastel bars, we reach to our pockets to pay and understand why it is called the soggy dollar.

The end of our week is marked by the Viking Olympics a set of in the water games designed specifically to make sure that you get a great ab’ workout from laughing so much. Dignity was never my strong point but especially so when I am racing on an inflatable noodles using only my legs for acceleration because the rules state I must hold on to my Viking helmet with both hands. It is only unfortunate that my husband specialises in underwater photography.

I was only happy to report back to the boat show that a sailing holiday, even with a young family is not only perfectly possible but an adventure we will treasure for ever. Years later, I still wonder if ‘hooky’ still lurks under that forgotten jetty.

]]>http://www.philippaforrester.com/?feed=rss2&p=9280The English patient in the American winterhttp://www.philippaforrester.com/?p=922
http://www.philippaforrester.com/?p=922#respondTue, 09 Feb 2016 22:38:20 +0000http://www.philippaforrester.com/?p=922

This is what it must have felt like to be a settler in this wilderness. Nothing but us and nature. The wide river is completely frozen. Charlie and I, in the middle of it, are in a home made catamaran made from two yellow canoes lashed together with two extendable ladders front and back. In the middle, a tripod with a film camera all ready to go should we spot an animal.

We battle the elements. I’m leaning forward, slightly precariously at the front of the canoe, trying to smash through the ice with my paddle so that we can continue our search for any signs of the otters we are hoping to film.

It has us taken us hours to get this far. We have driven to this remote location, carried two canoes and heavy filming kit through hip-deep snow one hard, heart-thudding step at a time. We have paddled for miles between marshmallow banks in dense silence, exhausted by the fact that we have had to go up river.

Its quite good that we have to be quiet because I can’t pronounce words with any accuracy anyway. My lips are no longer working in synch with the other parts of their facial team – they have taken on their own numb identity, as though they are inflatable ones just stuck on.

My toes hurt with cold. I know its best not to dwell on that as it will only get worse.

We have been watching a snow storm descend from the mountains, a grey fuzzy blur. As we crack through the ice, it descends upon us, reducing the visibility so much that, even if we saw an otter, we couldn’t get a decent shot of it.

Still, I can’t remember having had a nicer time. I love the digging deep, the grit, the pioneer spirit that these adventures take. This is all in a days work for Charlie but it is magical for me and there is always the chance, that’s the great thing about filming wildlife, you just never know what is around the corner.

Deep under many thermal layers my phone starts ringing. To answer it will mean taking my gloves off. It would be easy to ignore, but with a mother’s intuition, I know not to. I sigh. The gloves come off.

‘Could you come and get your son by eleven?’ (Never doubt intuition.) ‘He has been vomiting at the top of the mountain during his ski lesson’

(Yes you did read that right, here in Wyoming, PE is ski lessons instead of rugby which is amazing – until you are sick).

I look at my watch. It is twenty five to eleven.

I glance at Charlie. He is squinting into the driving snow. It has ‘iced’ the front side of him and sits on his beard. He is still slowly rowing his side of the catamaran. We are starting to go round in circles.

I try to say, ‘I don’t think I can make it for then because, you see I am in the middle of the frozen river in the middle of the National Park and I have just spent a long time rowing upstream to get here.’ but it didn’t really come out like that, more of a meaningless mumble on account of the numb lips and the pointlessness of resisting the peuking mountaintop scenario. Also, even if she could have understood, the kindly school secretary would have thought she was hearing things, no sane person goes to the Grand Teton national park with a kayak in the middle of winter.

The snow is whips around us now into our eyes and my mouth when I open it to speak.

‘I’ll call wu back.’

It just took one stricken text to a very good friend and, in the manner of amazing women, she was on it, ready to scoop him up as soon as he vomited/skiied his way to the bottom of the mountain and take him home to our house.

The snow intensifies. There is no visibility. The storm that was forecast for tonight is obviously here today. This isn’t our day. We turn around, time to go with the flow. It takes us almost an hour of falling through snow with kit to get from the water to the car, during which I wonder if my heart is going to explode from my chest. The heated seats are worth every ounce of effort.

But now the mother’s guilt.

A text; ‘He is asking for Tomato Soup’

Of course he is – he is a Brit, it’s in his genes, he is programmed to crave it, especially when ill.

That female pioneering spirit kicks in again. If I couldn’t get him from the mountain the least I could do is find him tomato soup!

However living here in Wyoming there is no Heinz Cream of Tomato soup. I know right? This is, without doubt, a life essential for every British person.

I am still cold to the bone after forty minutes in the car when we stop at the ‘gas station’. It’s going to take a long time to thaw out. I pick up a can of Campbells condensed cream of tomato soup $3.50 and inspect it. The second ingredient is high fructose corn syrup, the third is wheat flour. Why? Does tomato soup need these things? More to the point a sick child who needs nurturing back to health especially does NOT need these things.

Spurred on by mother’s guilt and the pioneering spirit of the Wyoming settlers I resolve, instead of battling my way through the ice to capture on film the incredible wildlife which manages to survive in the harsh winter to stand in the kitchen and make warm tasting-of-home tomato soup instead and help us humans survive the winter. This is no easy challenge.

The thing is, the canned type we love so much isn’t just any old tomato soup it has a certain depth, a particular flavour that can’t be denied – anything else frankly is a let down.

It took a while but finally I cracked it – not only that but I am willing to share the secret formula. If only the settlers had had this.

I took;

1 large red onion finely chopped and gently fried it with 2 cloves of garlic in olive oil till it was transparent and sweet.

A 14oz can of organic chopped tomatoes

A couple of tablespoons of Italian seasoning (nothing fancy – dried out of the cupboard)

A squirt of agave syrup (just enough to take away the acidity)

‘ Then I blended the lot on the highest speed for as long as I thought think the blender could take it. Till when I peered inside it was silky smooth. I heated it up and then I added a dollop of Almond milk at the end. Finally I relished the warm glow of motherhood (and being in a hot kitchen).

If I was feeling experimental and I had them in the cupboard. I also think it could benefit from a few sundried tomatoes – gosh there’s that pioneering spirit again. I keep finding myself humming the tune from ‘Little house on the Prairie.

]]>http://www.philippaforrester.com/?feed=rss2&p=9220I bought a rainforest (well it was both of us actually).http://www.philippaforrester.com/?p=900
http://www.philippaforrester.com/?p=900#respondWed, 13 Jan 2016 22:33:48 +0000http://www.philippaforrester.com/?p=900I am being driven over the Andes by Elvis. Neither of us can understand a word the other says, luckily we both find it hilarious.
My sinuses pop as we climb. We often swerve, to avoid the many boulders that have avalanched from the mountainside onto the road.
Elvis plays a song, I can just about make out the chorus lyrics; ‘Kiss me on the mocha.’ We laugh politely.
The world wrinkles away from me. Ahead, the road slices through the pink cliff faces of the second highest mountain range in the world.
I am on my way to the other side of those mountains to find my husband. He is, unshaven, unfed and on a scruffy patch of rainforest, which we have purchased, but I have yet to see, here, in deepest darkest Peru.
Elvis and I are losing the sun behind the mountain tops. We stop abruptly for two small children. Round, with many warm layers, they are herding a collection of small brown goats, scruffy white sheep and one pig, along this perilous, narrow road.
We drive through traditional villages, I see a baby sleeping happily in a wheelbarrow. I guess there is no need for the latest pushchair at the top of the world, a wheelbarrow is far more practical.
At 3,000 metres Elvis points at something. We are at Nina Marka, the setting casts its orange light on stunning pre-inca burial mounds. Elvis needs the sunshine; we don’t have time to stop.
He retrieves his CD of pop divas from the glove compartment – at last we are beginning to speak the same language.
When darkness comes, as we descend into cloud forest on the other side of the Andes, I am grateful; I know how steep the drop off the side of the road is, but I at least I can’t see it. Many who know this road well, still lose their lives. I concentrate on listening to the pop divas and trust in Elvis.
Seven hours later he brings me safely to Charlie. We find him, in the black of night, in Pilcopata – a small town with very little. There is one small hotel, luxury, as long as we are happy to share our room with a tree frog.
After five days travelling, I am anticipating a great nights sleep, sadly, it turns out that hordes of cockerels and gangs of dogs maraude the streets all night, their only intention to make as much noise as possible.
In the morning we drink black syrup coffee on the side of the street, and make plans, it is time for me to see our land for myself.
We bought it because it borders Manu National Park, one of Peru’s most precious rainforests and home to the amazing giant river otter, subject of one of our films.
The land and the park are constantly under threat from poachers and illegal loggers. We wanted to save it and hoped it would act as a buffer to help protect the national park. Charlie has been filming a documentary about it for BBC2, but I have waited over a year to see it.
It is a peculiar thing to buy somewhere that you have never been too. It is certainly not the rainforest of our dreams. The land is overgrown with scrub species. Too much thorny bamboo, only the occasional silver barked tree.
We cross a river and hike up into it, stopping to look at an ‘owl eyed’ butterfly, so called because a pattern of a perfect amber eye, gazes back at us from the bottom of its grey wing.
I regard a rush hour line of army ants with leaf sails. They have even built an underpass system under leaves and twigs. But not many other animals live here any more.
Thunder grumbles above.
We investigate the wooden hut occupied by the ex owners. Inside they processed coca leaves into a paste – a crime here, punishable with prison.
Inside is dark and hot with a few ancient possessions scattered on the floor. I don’t know what I was expecting but it wasn’t this.
There is plenty of evidence of the tools that were used to rape this land, chainsaw chains, chainsaw oil, a weed sprayer to protect the coca plant. It is an uncomfortable place.
We leave it and climb the paths up to the ex-cocaine field. Charlie chopped down the cocaine on his first trip, already the scrub has reclaimed that space. Our challenge will be to get the right plants growing, to allow the rainforest to come back.
Whole chunks of forest are cleared, charred. We pass stacked planks. What once the forest floor is covered in sawdust, yet life is already struggling through, small curls of green shoots. The deep tracks left by logging lorries are filled with brown water, we discover fish living in them.
We pass Manioc and yucca plantations, weak, infested with maggots and worms where the eroded soil has nothing left to offer.
We climb even higher to the border with the national park. The official sign has been pushed over, it is clear that, despite us buying the land, the path is still being regularly used.
Charlie is showing me why he feels unable to help the rainforest or manage this land, about the impossibility, the lack of money and sometimes motivation here in Peru. We know that illegal logging is still occurring in the park near-by. The solution isn’t as simple as just buying a patch of land.
I flick a huge, shiny, black soldier ant from Charlie’s head, he is grateful, they can deliver a really nasty bite.
I notice the detailed patterns on the tiny frond of an emerging fern. A butterfly lands next to me; black velvet and turquoise. Butterflies land everywhere here, even on us; so many varieties, each startling in colour and pattern. Another looks just like a light-brown, crinkled leaf, until it opens its wings.
We hear chain saws in the distance and turn away from the National Park for now. Today is not the day to confront the loggers, although we will need to do that.
The thunder grumbles again, closer now. We need to go.
I don’t pay enough attention to the path and get spiked in the head by bamboo. We are hiking fast, there is no time to stop and investigate. I can’t tell if I am bleeding or just sweating but the biting insects seem to like my head even more.
Slipping down a muddy bank, I make the mistake of reaching for a tree trunk for support – I get a palm full of spikes.
The land is bordered by a broad river, its movement and cool clarity a refreshing contrast to the dense humid bush.
A kingfisher dives here, Charlie tells me there are five different types. As we talk however, my virgin legs are being mullered by sand-flies.
We swim, in a pool surrounded by large, smooth, warm boulders. It is deep, clear, ice cold; anaesthetic for hot skin, and bitten legs. This is the rainforest paradise of my imagination.
The rain arrives, heavy spots falling all around us. We have to leave; rain like this means the rivers rise fast and we have three to cross – Elvis cannot risk having his car stuck.
The next day is spent journeying up river by boat, into the heart of Manu National park, we camp in the rain forest, then trek to Cocha Salvador. This oxbow lake, is home to the family of six foot long, giant river otters which Charlie has been filming on and off for over a decade. We want to be inspired again, to revisit our reasons for buying the land, and I want to meet them.
A gentle breeze moves the vines as we board a slight wooden catamaran and push out onto the smooth, green water. Every available space on the bank is crammed with life. Straight, white lines of ridged trunks blend with spiky leaved palms, every shade of green is here.
Turtles bask on a half submerged, fallen tree-trunk, orange butterflies decorate their faces, feeding on the salts they find there. They leap into the water as we drift silently by.
Before long the air is filled with a whining cacophony, like mini engines revving. I know that sound so well from our films, at last, the otters. I recongnise the noise they make when they have a fish and are claiming it for their own, generally at the same time as trying to eat it.
We drift closer For the first time I see their dark heads.
I weep. A big circle has closed for me; years spent making films about them, knowing their names and stories, but never seeing them for myself, years waving goodbye to my husband who spends months with them, hard earned money spent buying land to try to help this place.
Now, here, right in front of me, are some of the biggest ambassadors for this rainforest. Finding them has been a long journey for me. Tears roll down my face, bigger drops than the rain.
A loud snort makes me jump, a young adult has surfaced close to the boat. Charlie laughs, ‘meet Dali, he is checking you out.’ The snort turns into a gurgle as Dali submerges.
The family swim, seamlessly alongside the bank, twelve of them, all ages, never silent. They play constantly; spy hopping, grumbling, whining and loving each other. A big splash when one is fishing, then a family row when another tries to steal the meal. No table manners at all. I am reminded of home.
Charlie looks for caimen. He spots one ahead, lurking under an overhanging bush. As the family approach it, we are tense. A caimen will take an otter cub. This caimen makes the decision to avoid confrontation with such a large family group, even when two cubs swim by unprotected – he is not stupid.
A white egret dangles great, grey legs as it flies in to perch nearby and check for stirred up scraps of fish in the wake of the otters. Nothing goes to waste here.
We are so close, I can hear the crunching of fish bones, smell the fish, see the baseball glove paws and big, brown dog-eyes rolling with pleasure while they eat.
They haul their shiny muscular bodies onto the land to rest, but not for long. I love the way that, when they re-enter the water, they belly flop, it sums up their exuberant attitude to life. A grasping of life that I have seen since I arrived here, in each creature that finds a space to grow, feed and live.
It’s noisy, the otters are loud, an insect sounds like a car parking sensor, a bird sounds like a car alarm, yet there’s not a car within thousands of miles. It’s not really (as I manically scratch my bites), particularly relaxing here, but it is wild. There are even wild, uncontacted people living in this forest. Here, nature has found a place for every creature. In one way I feel a million miles from reality but I then I feel, overwhelmingly, that this is actually reality; the original Eden? Here in one of the last true wildernesses on our planet, I feel touched by something we left behind, an all consuming hunger for life.
]]>http://www.philippaforrester.com/?feed=rss2&p=9000Bears on the run – the school runhttp://www.philippaforrester.com/?p=897
http://www.philippaforrester.com/?p=897#commentsWed, 06 Jan 2016 23:56:42 +0000http://www.philippaforrester.com/?p=897

You know I don’t like to brag – however. At the moment I have, possibly the best school run in the world.

I confess, I have, traditionally, found any school run extremely stressful but when I first saw my school run here, I quaked – now added to the usual stress would be snowy precipices!

School runs are difficult enough without precipices. You have to discuss whose fault it is that the lunch boxes are still on the kitchen table.Or why, after you said, ‘please go and do your homework,’ somebody (mentioning no names) just completely ‘forgot’ and ended up playing Lego instead, so now he is doing it in the car.

On the school run, the coffee hasn’t really kicked in yet so you’re brain is still remembering everything that has been forgotten.You have to do things like making last minute spelling tests fun – you do not have any spare brain space to concentrate on precipices.

Yet, in just one term, oops, sorry, semester, thanks to Wyoming, my school run stress scars have healed.

Together the kids and I have battled through all weathers; thick snow, heavy rain and scorching sun.The beautiful landscape has changed completely, from thick, white snow to bright green grass strewn with yellow flowers but none of that is what is really extraordinary.What is really extraordinary about our school run here, is the wildlife.

We first became familiar first of all with the iconic silhouette of mousse.They seemed to be obsessed with the river, lurking in its bends and eddies.We wondered if they were actually warming their feet, until we realised that they were walking up and down the rivers because they are so rubbish at walking through snow.What a ridiculous oversight in adaptation technology, given that it is snowy here from October through till May.Can you imagine the cursing of the moose as it is hunted by wolves, stumbling in the snow, and realises that it has spent millennia evolving completely the wrong feet for the job.

Most mornings a Red tailed hawk was to be seen sitting in superiority.One was on the same post for the morning and the evening school run.I couldn’t decide whether this was some rarely observed ambush hunting technique or just a case of being bone idle.I’d done the shopping, cleaned the house, answered some emails and done two loads of washing while he was just sitting there pretending to be important.

We were delighted to discover two osprey nests, huge scruffy piles of sticks at the tops of telegraph poles.It is rare to see an osprey at all in our normal lives and now we would see them every day, resident nesting pairs about to hatch a new family.So romantic. However, one day, we were shocked to observe three adult ospreys all at one nest, so much for pairing for life, if only we had the school run gossip on that one.

As spring progressed, elk began their annual migration, from the Jackson Hole elk refuge, to higher ground. Our way was often barred by bemused looking doe eyed creatures with huge white bottoms, dithering about whether they should all run across the road together, seperately, or just go back – clearly elk never evolved a need for snap decision making.They never seemed to have any idea of the urgency of my school run.

Actually, over time, the school run took on less and less of an urgent feel. We even started to look forward to it.

Every day hid a new surprise, a bald eagle swooping low over the car, or a feathery footed grouse.This humble creature had no idea of how hilarious it was.For a few days in a row, we met him on a tight bend (near a precipice).His response to our rather large and noisy car stopping beside him, was to freeze in the middle of the road, as if he had suddenly found himself in an early morning game of musical statues.He blended in nicely, I’ll give him that – beautiful tawny shades, but really, this kind of behavioural adaptation to a school run road is bound to get you killed sooner or later.

We didn’t kill him but we enjoyed a little game of chicken with him. After a minute or so of statue impersonation, he could take the stress no longer. Finally he wouldlift a huge, over-feathered foot and take a super slow motion step forward, then another.If I nudged the car forward an inch,he would warble, ‘run away,’ and, as if someone had wound up his legs, would suddenly run across the road in front of us.At least I’m pretty sure he shouted ‘run away.’ Well, if it wasn’t him, it was one of the kids.

The day we finally gave up trying to get to school on time at all, was the day that three grizzly bears casually walked across the road in front of us.Even my middle son said, ‘Come on, lets just stay and watch, when we explain, they’ll understand.’ On the many thousands of school runs that I will do, there may never be another where I have to stop for three grizzly bears, so I agreed.

What better biology lesson is there than watching three bears showing off how perfectly adapted they are?As they wandered across the field below us the babies played rough and tumble.Play is the way mammals learn I announced, ‘they are soooo cute.’ countered my youngest.

One of the cubs became particularly interested in the herd of horses in the adjacent ranch paddock and so I explained that we were about to observe some predator-prey interaction. ‘Those horses are having none of it Mum.’

Meanwhile, grizzly Mum, (not me) had a good scratch, rubbing her back up and down a telegraph pole – tool use? No, just brilliant to watch.

So you see, finally, in response to my environment I have evolved adaptations which are really paying off in terms of survival of my offspring – I have adapted to thoroughly enjoying my school run.Precipices, what precipices?

PS. For some of my local neighbours here, I do appreciate this will all sound like the ravings of a very strange English woman.You see they haven’t been as scarred as me by extreme worries like what on earth will happen to my poor child, if I can’t find a matching pair of the same size football socks in a clock countdown situation.Live TV was easy by comparison. I always hit the news on time but in England very rarely do my children make it to school with the right socks or on time.

I have never heard wild wolves before but I am in no doubt about who it is calling outside in the snowy valley.

Wolves are, obviously, far more exciting, than work.This is a once ina lifetime moment, so, it is simply not an option to go stay inside. I stand on the verandah, and wrap my cardigan around me, shivering with cold and excitement.

It is surprisingly easy to track their progress – not just from the howling.The still air is full of them, alive, as if they have a static presence.They’re travelling towards me, along the river which runs just a few hundred yards from our house.

Normal dogs, in a cabin further down river, become apoplectic.Suddenly, their best ‘guard dog’ barks seem a bit pointless, spiky rather than intimidating, and, I would imagine, rather irritating to a wolf.

A group of three Canada Geese fly up from the river, honking in tuneless alarm, as they arrange themselves into the correct flying formation.

Two paddocks away, in the branches of a grey green Aspen tree, crows and magpies gather together in a large group. They caw loudly and peer in the direction of the river.I have never seen them gather together like that. But I have heard that they will follow a wolf pack in the vague hope of snatching a piece of offal from a kill.Does that mean the wolves are hunting.Oh why can’t I see what they can see from the top of that tree?

The wolves howl again, closer now. A moment later, comes a reply, from way over the forested hill. A single howl. A lonesome wolf?

The call is so low in pitch that somehow it fills my heart, swilling around inside, like thick red wine in an empty decanter.

Humans can only howl like that when it comes from deep inside our hearts.I know it I have done it – only once, with the dog – funny, yet sad at the same time.

I rush upstairs to press my eyes into binoculars at the windows, nothing. Back down to ground level and I peer between our neighbours house and the trees, still nothing.Upstairs again, two at a time, to squint at the hills rising from the river. I can’t see one wolf but I can hear they are really close.

So, I return to the deck and just listen, after all that is where the magic is. I don’t need to see them, I can imagine what they are doing, they are travelling away from me now, running swiftly through the valley, towards the forested hill.They are organising each other, making a plan, planning to meet.The sounds begin to lose volume.

Perhaps I should return inside, carry on with the writing I am working on –do what the wolves are doing, just get on with it.After all, you never catch a bunch of wolves sitting around in the woods procrastinating.

When I next stand outside, twenty minutes later, the wolves are gone, I know it, not just because their sounds are gone but because I can feel it in the air.Every other creature is quiet, the air is quite clear – their static gone.

]]>http://www.philippaforrester.com/?feed=rss2&p=8950Monumental Road Triphttp://www.philippaforrester.com/?p=888
http://www.philippaforrester.com/?p=888#respondWed, 06 Jan 2016 22:32:50 +0000http://www.philippaforrester.com/?p=888The sun creeps up behind the giant stacks of red rock stacks but the small rock I am currently sitting on is really freezing my butt – as they say around here.

We have made it to the desert just before dawn.

I stand. Red earth sinks softly beneath my feet but the tiny succulents in it hold their ground.

Slowly, as it blesses us, the sun makes our desolate surroundings sing. Colours glow on the great towers and spires of red surrounding us.We are completely alone. It is magical.

This is why, on their family holiday, we dragged our three moaning, sleepy boys out of their warm ‘Holiday Inn’ beds at 3.30 am.

Now the two eldest and their father are dotted around ‘The Valley of the Gods’ taking photos.

As the sun touches them on this new day, the sandstone stacks are so deliriously beautiful that they eat into my soul. I can’t help wondering which spirits are here with us – I just can’t help it.

The earth seems to be littered with dead branches where no god-like gardener has pruned the old growth, yet when I look closer I see that they have tiny, optimistic, green leaves.

The stillness presses upon my ears making me calm. I am aware of the vastness and utterly at home.

Surely each new day should be celebrated in this way? Perhaps the school run, packing lunches or getting on a train aren’t the way for humanity to go after all? Perhaps we should all simply stand in an ochre amphitheatre and worship the sun.

The warmth penetrates my bones, the sun now high enough to glint off my pen as I write.

Happy.

Our little one joins me on the sunlit stones, still sleep-deprived and grumpy, still dwarfed by his Dad’s warm fleece, yet seduced from the car.

‘Why are the rocks here?’

None of us know but we all ask it, as we stand and witness the sun peer over their magnificence.

The great orb’s new angle points out the jagged profile of the peaks and I realise that they look like some awful large scale dentistry work has occurred.They are cracked, some are missing.

Boulders, bigger than our car, balance ridiculously as if they might fall any second, yet their position is perfect. It is easier to imagine that they were placed there by a mad artist and a put-upon engineer than to imagine that all this could be caused by erosion.

The whole landscape is built on fragmentation; splitting, layering, striation.

It is familiar – road runner country. Those boulders are just waiting for wily coyote to push them when he hears the familiar ‘beep-beep’ of that pesky bird.These landscapes are the real stars of those old cowboy films.

The sun moves with the silent seconds.The light intensifies the colours around us with every creeping inch.

The boys are going photo crazy, the only way they know; try to capture it – copy what Dad does.

When we told them we were headed to Monument Valley all the boys asked, ‘What are monuments?’

‘Darling, They are huge geological coincidences standing the test of time, monumental monoliths.’

How could I have known?How could I ever have described this to them? I am grateful that they can feel it.

So many of the landscapes we see on our adventure are comforting, perhaps because it is so still; reassuring in its longevity and scale.

As the sun’s light brightens it shines through holes, I realise there are long lines of perforations right through some of the rock layers, just like toilet roll but hundreds of thousands of years old and there is no one on earth who could rip it off.

There is no sound. And three boys are here. I realise how thirsty I have been for this silence.

‘Is there some water around so that I can make the Snake river?’

‘I don’t think so – this is the desert.’

In the course, orange sand at my feet, Arthur has begun making a model of the Gros Ventre junction, a place we have left far behind in the Grand Teton national park.

We have left lots far behind, suddenly I find I am thinking of kissing our dog goodbye, of leaving my Mum, of weeping when I walked away from a hilarious history and loving friends at our primary school, of the wrench when my son said he didn’t know where home was any more. It is the nature of going on an adventure.

Sometimes it seems like a stupid thing to do, to leave all that we hold dear, but we wanted to show the boys how big our world is and perhaps ourselves, to find monuments to remind us to wonder.

A bird of prey, a Harrier, lands on the scree slope above us. Grey breasted against the red earth and green clumps of grass.It comes only to sunbathe after the cold desert night; for the sun to warm its heart.